This is the Feast of St. Nicholas. Random fact.
I’ve been having an anxiety attack since last night—it’s now 9pm. A 24-hour anxiety attack. The straw that broke my coping camel’s back was Lucie developing incontinence all of a sudden. She’s 9-1/2 years old, so it could just be old age. Or it could be something more serious. My catastrophic thinking always shoots right for death. Everything points to death in my anxiety-disordered brain.
I’m currently obsessed with a British show, “Sky Arts Portrait Artist of the Year” on YouTube. When I sat down yesterday to watch the next episode, I got really confused because it didn’t seem to follow on the previous one. Then I figured out that it’s probably due to the COVID lockdown. This is the 2020 series, after all. Seeing it go from crowds of people watching the artists in a light-filled rotunda to a set empty of all but the artists, judges, host (only one now, not two—presumably the older woman was at too much risk), and sitters, with all of them 6 or more feet apart, was a brutal reminder of the state of our world right now.
And, of course, there’s the new Omicron variant, with all sorts of unknowns. It seems to be more contagious than even Delta, but we don’t know if it’s more deadly. With vaccines now, and mask-habits, variants are less catastrophic—for those of us who are vaccinated and wear masks. There are still unbelievable numbers of people who refuse to do either. And as long as they’re around, we’ll keep having variants.
So adding my dog’s mortality to all of that was just one anxiety too many. Deep breaths, singing with James and a friend, having a meeting about my added work responsibilities—which boosts my sense of self-worth—and a cocktail at 4pm and a glass of wine at 6:30pm, aren’t fully alleviating the attack yet, but hopefully after a good night’s sleep, everything will look better in the morning. Thank you, Dad, for that sage advice. I heard it a lot from him when I was growing up!